


What Happened at Wardlow

by Miss_Ash



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: AU post 3x07, F/M, Fluff and Crack, Mainly crack, but really this is just crack, or in longhand: Phryne never went to England and phrack aren't phracking yet, with a light sprinkle of angst just for spice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2019-11-15 05:20:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18067346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Ash/pseuds/Miss_Ash
Summary: The dining room, perhaps, saw least yet somehow most of the events of Phryne Fisher’s birthday party on the evening of December 21st, 1929.With hindsight, one might say that it all started with a conversation between a Police Constable and his wife...





	1. What Happened in the Dining Room

**Author's Note:**

> It all started with a random episode of TV giving me a stupid idea on a plane, and now here we are. This is probably the most ridiculous (and needlessly complicated) thing that I have ever written, but it has been a lot of fun. The format will go room by room, each a different chapter, and I'm hoping to have all of it edited and posted within the week. So, if you feel like a mildly confusing, somewhat fluffy, completely ridiculous adventure at Wardlow, then this is the place for you. 
> 
> Pro tip: maybe drink a couple of glasses of wine first.

The dining room, perhaps, saw least yet somehow most of the events of Phryne Fisher’s birthday party on the evening of December 21st, 1929.

With hindsight, one might say that it all started with a conversation between a Police Constable and his wife – though who can ever say with certainty what is responsible for how an evening turns out? All that can be said with certainty, truly, is that Hugh Collins was hungry.

“Are you sure Mrs. Stanley’s coming, Dottie?” Hugh asked, eyeing the table of Mr. Butler’s exquisite canapés with a slightly forlorn look in his eye.

“Yes,” Dot hissed in quiet response. “She was delayed at another social engagement, but she’ll be here soon, you can wait until then.”

“I didn’t have time for lunch today,” he complained, “the Inspector had me organising the paperwork from Miss Fisher’s little car chase yesterday.”

Dot frowned. “Well what was he doing?”

“ _Writing_ the paperwork from Miss Fisher’s car chase yesterday.”

She grimaced and sighed – hoping that the rather exciting conclusion of this last case wouldn’t lead to tension between the two detectives, knowing as she did how the Inspector worried for Miss Fisher’s safety. Dot shook off the thought though – it was Phryne’s birthday party, after all, surely the two of them could behave for one evening at least? She glanced briefly at her husband, examining the way his eyes roamed over the piled plates of food, and rolled her eyes.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Hugh!” she exclaimed. “Go and get yourself something small to eat then, before you start drooling on the carpet. Just be subtle about it.”

Hugh grinned at the permission, crossing to the table surreptitiously, so as not to be noticed by the other members of the party assembled there.

Guy and Isabella – wintering for a few months in the antipodean sun – were, at this point, in conversation with Doctor MacMillan, morbidly curious as they found themselves to the exploits of a practicing coroner.

“And the bugger was really in two complete halves?” Guy demanded, an arm tightening involuntarily around his wife even as the two leant in closer, rapt in attention as they were.

Mac nodded, taking a sip of whiskey. “Perfectly split down the middle,” she confirmed, “I’d never seen anything like it.”

“Gracious,” Isabella gasped. “How horribly fascinating.”

“And did you ever discover what had caused it?” Guy asked, at which Mac grinned.

“Now that’s where the story gets really interesting,” she announced, putting down her glass ready to launch into her tale.

Across the room, Hugh was happily tucking into his plateful, as Dot frowned in the direction of the hall.

“This is delicious, Dottie, did Mr. Butler make it?”

“Hmm?” she hummed, distracted. “Oh yes, yes, he made it all like always… what on earth are those two up to?” she asked then, of no one in particular, and Hugh just munched to himself, content. She shook her head and turned back to Hugh, eyes widening a little.

“Hugh, I said small!”

“This is small,” he protested, popping another treat into his mouth, and Dot opened her own mouth to argue that it most definitely wasn’t by her standards, when she was interrupted by Phryne marching through the door with a rather annoyed expression, Jack following behind looking almost equally as irritated.

“So, you're saying I can't have any fun, is that it?” Phryne demanded over her shoulder, and Jack rolled his eyes in apparent frustration, everyone else in the room falling silent.

“You know that it isn't,” he snapped back. “I don’t know why I even bother talking when you so wilfully misconstrue what I’m saying!”

At this Phryne’s eyes turned murderous, rounding on Jack with the face of one about to lose a very carefully tempered calm, and each of the dining room’s original inhabitants seemed to have the same thought at once. With a brief exchange of glances, the five of them each hurried for the nearest door they could find, Hugh abandoning his plate on the table with a wistful glance and following his wife towards the parlour, Guy and Isabella behind them. Mac, it seemed, took the kitchen for safer ground, and disappeared through the door – pulling it firmly shut behind her.

Once they were alone, Phryne raised an eyebrow at Jack as if in challenge to repeat the sentiment again now no one was around to witness any impending dismemberment. Jack just glared back at her, unphased.

“You know what I mean,” he said, and she scoffed.

“I’m quite sure that I don’t, Jack, why don’t you explain? Are you saying that you _don’t_ mind me risking my life needlessly – that I could go out and offer myself up for cadet target practice tomorrow and you wouldn’t bat an eyelid?”

Jack ground his jaw. “I wouldn’t stop you.”

“Oh no?” she asked.

“Did I stop you yesterday?”

“You tried!”

“I asked you not to – it’s not like I punctured your tyres, Phryne, for the love of… look, I told you a long time ago that I would never change you. I meant that, I _mean_ it. Your love of adventure is part of what makes you _you_ and I would never resent you for doing these things, I need you to understand that.”

“Well if you don't resent me doing them then why even bring it up in the first place?” she demanded, still fuming.

“Because I care!” Jack shot back, “Because even if I'm not planning to stop you doing something you want to do I'm not going to sit idly by and let you kill yourself without ever _suggesting_ an alternative option!”

“So, what, you're just saying it for the sake of it?”

A scream from the kitchen stopped Jack’s answer quite suddenly in its tracks, and the two of them turned towards the source of the sound, half-ready to run towards it. Before they could, though, Mac’s head appeared around the door.

“It's fine,” she said, though it was not thoroughly believable. “Everything’s fine, don't mind us.”

The two of them shared a glance, turning to the door – shut, once again, as if it had never been opened – and back to each other.

“Do you think we should…”

Phryne frowned for a moment, then shook her head. “I'm sure Mac has it handled. Besides, I want to hear the answer to my question. _Do_ you say it for the sake of it?”

Jack groaned. “Of course I don't. I say it because I worry. I say it because regardless of what peace I've made with your lifestyle it doesn't stop me feeling sick when I watch you putting yourself in danger. I say it because even if I'm not expecting you to listen, I still have to express it occasionally – if for no other reason than to make sure you know I care.”

“Jack,” Phryne said then, voice softer but still drowned in frustration. “If you care so much then why are we still… why aren't we…”

“Why aren't we what?” he asked when she failed to finish, and her jaw clenched as she seemed to debate how she wanted to.

“Why don't you _do_ something about it?” she cried finally in utter exasperation.

Jack stared at her, expression nonplussed. “I wasn't sure what you wanted me to do.”

Phryne’s mouth fell open, standing there equally as shocked as him. “How can you say that?”

Jack blinked. “Perhaps because you say one thing and do another? I know you don’t want a relationship, Phryne, but sometimes you act as if you can’t bear other women even looking at me. How am I meant to know what you want me to do?”

Phryne opened and closed her mouth, huffing in silent rage, and the two of them stood in silence for several seconds before the kitchen door opened, Mr. Butler emerging with a bright smile (if a little manic behind the eyes), and a tray of champagne.

“Would you all like to come through to the parlour for champagne?” he asked, jovial tone quite out of keeping with the tension that hung in the room, and Phryne shook her head, eyes still fixed on Jack.

“Sorry, Mr. Butler,” she replied, and then finally turned her head away, gaze downcast. “I’m afraid I'm not really in the mood.”

With that she walked past him, storming into the kitchen without another word.

Mr. Butler shot Jack a sympathetic smile. “Can I tempt you, Inspector?”

Jack shook his head, sighing. “Thank you, Mr. Butler, but I think I should…” he nodded his head towards the kitchen and the other man nodded in understanding. “Make sure everyone else is having a good time.”

With that he followed after Phryne, shoulders slumped with the demeanour of a man knowingly walking into a lion’s den.

Mr. Butler watched him go and sighed, wishing for all the world (like every other person in the building, he was sure) that the two detectives would stop being quite so stubborn. Then he squared his shoulders, re-affixed his slightly fake smile, and headed for the parlour.

Jane appeared shortly thereafter, being herded by Mac in the same direction.

“Are they _still_ fighting?” Jane demanded under her breath and Mac just shook her head.

“Don't worry about it, Jane, they'll work it out.”

Once they had left, the dining room stood deserted, empty save for plates of mostly untouched food and the faint sounds of arguing. It remained this way for several minutes, the disagreement next door eventually quieting, allowing for peace to settle.

This, it seemed though, was destined to only be short lived, and the quiet was soon disturbed by Dot – red-faced and flustered – hurrying through towards the kitchen. There was the shortest of gaps before the door flew open again, accompanied by an angry shout of, “Hugh, no!” from the same direction.

Hugh, however, did not appear to be listening – distracted as he was by the cat he had clutched to his bare chest – and continued to run, Dot hot on his heels.

A moment later, Jack and Phryne emerged, hurrying after (and if her lipstick looked a little smudged, then it wasn't for the dining room walls to comment on).

“Do you have any idea what's happening?” Jack demanded as they ran, and Phryne just shrugged.

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

They, as it happened, were two of the only people left in the house at this point who didn't know - distracted as they had been with their own argument. That answer had been for the dining room to know, and the parlour to find out.

And find out, it most certainly had.

 


	2. What Happened in the Parlour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next room, the next piece of the puzzle. Hopefully this will start to answer a few questions! Crack on, friends...

If Phryne Fisher’s parlour could talk, these are the things it might say that it saw on the night of December 21st.

It started with the two detectives, standing close against the fireplace, wrapped up completely in their own little world, even as their words turned sour.

“To a job well done, Jack.” Phryne raised her glass and Jack clinked his own against it, eyes soft, demeanour one of ease. “I have to say I think this might have been one of the most exciting cases we've ever worked. I'm going to take it as the universe’s birthday present to me.”

Jack choked a little around his whiskey, raising an eyebrow at her. “It's lucky you made it to your birthday, what with that little stunt you pulled with the motorcar yesterday.”

The words were joking but there was still something behind them, the shadow of an argument and a wound that might be healed but could just as easily be ripped open again. Phryne did her best to brush it off.

“I was in control the whole time, Jack,” she said with a teasing smirk, but it didn't lift the storm clouds that had descended into his blue eyes.

“You know that’s not the point.”

“It's something of the point,” she shot back, expression shifting to one of annoyance.

“It was an unnecessary risk, Miss Fisher, and you know it.” Jack placed his drink on the mantel, shoving his hands into his pockets and looking at her sternly.

Phryne glared back at him with ice forming in her eyes. “And I suppose putting yourself in the line of fire wasn't, Inspector?”

“Putting myself in the line of fire is my _job_.”

“Well so is mine!” she argued.

Jack let out a frustrated breath. “I know you like to forget it whenever convenient, Miss Fisher, but you are – in fact – still a civilian. Detective or not it's still my duty to risk my life ahead of yours.”

“What?” she demanded, jaw tight. “Because you're the man?”

“Because I'm the Police Officer.”

So involved in their own developing quarrel, of course, Jack and Phryne both seemed oblivious to the entrance of her butler, crossing the room with only the merest glance in their direction (and an eye roll to himself at their lovestruck foolishness) before interrupting the room’s other occupants, equally rapt in debate (though theirs apparently on the topic of football, not their concern for the other’s life and safety).

“Gentleman,” Mr. Butler greeted the two cabbies with a warm smile. “I believe there’s a delivery outside for you. Miss Jane asks if you wouldn't mind bringing it into the kitchen?”

At his words the two men nodded, jumping to attention and following the butler out towards the front door. It wasn't long thereafter that Phryne herself followed as well, storming away from her fellow detective with a face like thunder.

“I can't have this argument with you again, Jack, it's pointless,” she snapped as she retreated, back to him so she didn't see the way his face fell at her words.

“Phryne!” he called, hurrying afterwards, “wait, that's not what I said. You're an _excellent_ driver I don't doubt that, I'm only saying the other car was going to be stopped at the blockade anyway and there was no need to take the risk!”

For a moment, the parlour stood in happy silence, but soon the quiet was again broken, two couples hurrying in, as Guy Stanley closed the door behind them.

“She always was a bit of a firecracker, that cousin of mine,” he remarked with a laugh, taking his bride by the hand and leading her to the chaise. Dot hesitated for a moment by the door, a frown etched into her brow, but Hugh slipped a hand around her shoulders and gave a soft squeeze.

“Don't worry, Dottie,” he murmured, low enough that the other two couldn't hear. “I'm sure they'll work it out.”

“It just seems such a shame for them to fight on her birthday,” she sighed. “I wish that the two of them could just…”

“I know, Dottie,” Hugh removed his arm from his wife’s shoulders and wrapped his fingers around hers, pulling her gently towards a chair. “But the Inspector is about as stubborn as Miss Fisher herself, I think they just need to be left to work it out themselves.”

“Are you talking about Romeo and Juliet in there?” Guy butt in with a smirk, and Isabella let out a laugh.

“More Anthony and Cleopatra, darling. They’ll either end up killing each other or hauling each other’s ashes on the table.”

Dot and Hugh both blushed scarlet at Isabella’s words, but Guy laughed in response.

“Thank God I rescued the fudge, then.”

“I knew I married you for a reason,” Isabella grinned in response, kissing him before taking a small, ornate tin from his hands. She fished two pieces out and handed one to Guy, whereupon they clinked the treats like glasses.

“Bon appetit, ma cher,” Guy smirked and the two devoured their pieces with an oddly disproportionate seeming glee.

The other couple watched in confusion, too polite to comment on the strange gesture, and instead – with a brief nod to each other – attempted another topic of conversation.

“So, how are the two of you finding life in London?”

Isabella’s face lit up, and she launched quickly into an in-depth explanation of the joys and pains of London society, stopping only occasionally to pat her husband's hand with an amused, “Oh do tell them, darling!” before launching off into the story again herself.

For his part, Guy didn't seem to mind a bit, seeming content to lean back and watch his wife regale them with their particular adventures, only taking the odd bite of fudge and smiling happily at her tale.

It was as Isabella launched into what seemed the denouement of the story (most of which neither Dot nor Hugh had really followed, about some scandalous party in Belgravia) that Dot began to notice Hugh's fidgeting beside her. She looked over to him to see him fiddling with the buttons of his shirt, rolling his neck from side to side, a flush appearing beneath his collar.

“Hugh?” Dot hissed, frowning at him in question. “Whatever's the matter with you?”

Hugh turned to her with wide eyes. “Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled. “I just… I'm so hot.”

Isabella stopped mid-sentence, glancing to Guy and then back to Hugh. Guy narrowed his eyes at him.

“I'm just,” the Constable repeated, standing suddenly and turning to look at Dot as if she might be able to help him. “I'm so _hot_. Absolutely…” His fingers started at the buttons of his shirt again. “Damn.” He tugged his bracers down, pulling the shirt tails from his trousers. “ _Stifled_.” He pulled the shirt clumsily from his arms and tossed it to the ground as Dot stared on in wide-eyed horror.

“I say, old chap,” Guy leant forward with an expression of slightly bewildered amusement, looking Hugh up and down. “Are you feeling quite well?”

Hugh blinked at him for a few moments, then started laughing.

“Hugh!” Dot called, clearly mortified, and Guy grabbed the open tin, taking stock of its contents.

“Isabella, my dearest, how much fudge have you had?” he asked, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

She shrugged in response. “Oh only a piece, dear, you know I can’t handle too much.”

“Well I’ve had two, darling, and there’s more than that gone.”

Isabella looked up at Hugh, wide-eyed. “Oh, you don’t think…”

Guy suppressed a laugh.

Dot, quite perplexed by the whole situation, looked from Hugh (now merrily shucking off his trousers), to the couple opposite. “I don’t understand. What does the fudge have to do with anything?”

Isabella snorted out a laugh, and Guy gave in and chuckled too. “Well there were twenty pieces in the tin, you see,” he explained. “And now I’m afraid there are only eleven.”

Dot raised her eyebrows at them in question, still none the wiser.

Guy looked over to where Hugh was hopping around pulling off his shoes, and grinned. “I do believe your Constable there may have eaten the other six.”

Dot opened her mouth to demand (in likely quite a frustrated tone had she had the chance, given the expression of impatient indignance that had taken residence on her face) what on earth they were going on about, when the door to the parlour reopened again.

“Can I interest anyone in a glass of champagne?” Mr. Butler asked with his usual warm smile, just enough to disguise a distracted audience from the concern in his eyes.

Guy and Isabella lit up at the offer, beckoning the man over to each grab a glass. As he stepped from the door however, Hugh looked at the exit as if seeing it for the first time and – throwing a sock over his shoulder for good measure – ran for it.

“Hugh!” Dot called, clearly alarmed at this development, and with a brief glance back to a stunned Mr. Butler, took off after him.

“Good heavens,” Mr. Butler remarked, straightening up again with his tray. “Is everything quite alright in here?”

There was a moment’s silence where Guy and Isabella stared into their champagne glasses, expressions far too innocent, and then the two of them descended into howling peals of laughter, falling about themselves and clutching each other.

Mr. Butler blinked down at them for a few moments in utter confusion before turning back to the door with the thought to perhaps check on where Dot had run off to, when a harried looking Jane entered – Mac half a step behind her.

“Don’t mind if I do, Mr. B,” Mac remarked as she grabbed a glass of champagne, throwing herself in a chair, and Mr. Butler shot the two of them sympathetic smiles.

“Any luck yet?” he asked, and Jane shook her head, clearly disheartened.

“Cec and Bert have gone to look, but I don’t know where she could have gone.”

“They’ll find her Jane, don’t worry,” Mac offered the girl a reassuring smile. “She can’t have got far.”

It was at this point, as a still giggling Guy and Isabella managed to spill their champagne, that Mac seemed to notice the other occupants of the room and looked from them to Mr. Butler and back again. “What on earth’s the matter with you two?” she inquired with a bemused smirk.

Guy, his laughing now a breathless wheeze as he examined the upside-down champagne flute between his fingers, did not respond, but Isabella grinned back at the doctor, eyes sparkling – if a little unfocused.

“Nothing at all,” she sing-songed. “Would you like some fudge, Doctor?”

Mac frowned as the other woman handed her the tin, and by the piano, Mr. Butler’s face suddenly fell.

“Oh lord,” he breathed. Beside him, Jane’s brow creased.

“What’s the matter?”

“Doctor,” the butler called to her, a note of caution in his voice. “May I be so bold as to advise you don’t partake?”

Mac raised an eyebrow at him and then raised the tin to her nose to sniff, as she did, she coughed. “Jesus.”

“Precisely,” Mr. Butler acknowledged with a soft murmur.

“What is it?” Jane demanded with a slightly indignant huff, looking between the two adults in the room not consumed with fits of hysterics. “What’s wrong with it?”

Mr. Butler cleared his throat. “Do you remember the Stanley’s engagement party, Jane?”

Jane continued to frown beside him. “I’m hardly likely to forget a night like that one, am I? What does that have to do with the fudge?”

“Well do you remember before the party, when Mr. Johnson and Mr. Yates had to bring me home a little early?”

Jane’s eyes went wide in understanding at that. She had never been told, of course, exactly what it was that had sent Mr. Butler loopy that day, but she was an intelligent, street-smart girl. One could work these things out themselves.

“But why would they bring that with them?”

Mac chuckled from her chair, staring down her champagne glass. “Well, it is a party I suppose.”

“Hugh, no!” Dot’s stern, if muffled, shout was enough to make everyone in the room (even those not currently in control of their faculties) turn towards the sound – just in time to see Hugh Collins run into the hallway, now in nothing but his boxer briefs and one sock, a large, rather angry looking cat clutched in his arms.

“What in the…” Mac exclaimed, standing immediately to meet Dot as she ran to the parlour door to cut him off.

“I don’t understand what’s wrong with him!” the girl cried, turning to Mac in slight despair.

“I’d warrant it’s the fudge,” Mac remarked with a smirk, as Hugh started to rock the hissing feline in his arms like a child.

Dot let out an angry breath. “Why on _earth_ does everyone keep going on about the fudge?”

“Fudge?” Phryne asked, as she and Jack appeared from the dining room, looking from Mac to Hugh and back again. “Not Guy’s fudge?”

From the chaise, Guy and Isabella let out well-timed screeches of laughter.

“Well, I’d say that explains some of what’s going on here,” Phryne continued, lips quirking into a smile as she looked around the assembled members of her party. “Now would somebody like to explain the cat?”

“Would somebody like to explain everything?” came a rather haughty and irritated voice from the direction of the front door, and everyone turned to see Mrs. Stanley standing, looking mightily scandalised, in the doorway.

“Aunt Prudence!” Phryne exclaimed.

And that was what happened in the parlour.

 


	3. What Happened in the Kitchen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would apologise for using the phrase 'haul one's ashes' twice in the space of one fic, but it's one of my favourite vintage expressions and I'm angling for it to make a comeback, so I shan't.

Jane had been sitting at the kitchen table waiting, foot tapping out an agitated staccato on the tile beneath, for minutes that felt like hours when Mr. Butler finally arrived at the back door.

She leapt from her chair at the sight of him, unable to suppress a wide grin. “Are they here?” she demanded. “Do they have everything?”

Mr. Butler smiled back, holding the door open for Cec and Bert as the two cabbies manoeuvred their way in with a small crate.

“Careful!” Jane commanded as they placed it down. “Don’t knock it!”

“Don’t worry, Jane, we’ve got it,” Cec assured her. “All the bits are just outside the door.”

Bert stretched his back as they deposited the box on the floor. “Does Miss Fisher know yet?”

Jane shook her head, a smirk on her face. “No, I think we’ve managed to keep it a secret – thank you so much all of you for your help.”

The three men smiled back at her – not voicing, of course, but no doubt thinking all the same that there wasn’t a lot they wouldn’t do for Miss Fisher’s ward, just like Miss Fisher herself.

“You’re welcome, Miss Jane,” Mr. Butler smiled at her, and Cec grinned.

“Let’s just hope she likes it now, eh?”

“Oh, she will,” Jane replied with a smirk. “I know she will even if she pretends she doesn’t.”

The four of them became distracted for a brief moment as the sound of raised voices drifting in from the dining room reached their ears.

“Is that…?” Jane trailed off, face scrunched up as she strained to listen to the voices – but at that moment the door opened, Mac hurrying through it and pushing it closed again, rolling her eyes at the convened room in general.

“They’re at it again,” she announced.

Bert nodded at that. “Were when we went out to meet the delivery man.”

Jane looked between the adults around her. “Why do they fight so much?” she asked, clearly perplexed.

“Think you should take that one, Doc,” Cec said with a laugh, and Mac raised an eyebrow at him.

“What, because I’m a woman? No chance. You’ll understand when you’re older Jane,” she told the girl instead. “Now what’s this about a delivery?”

The distraction, though obvious, worked wonders – Jane’s face lighting up at the question. “Oh yes!” she exclaimed. “It’s Miss Fisher’s birthday present. The boys helped me organise it,” she added with a satisfied smile.

“I assume it’s whatever’s inside the crate?” Mac inquired, circling the kitchen table to get closer, and Jane nodded, shooting conspiratorial looks to her partners in crime.

“Shall we show her?”

Cec shrugged. “Can’t hurt, can it?”

Jane shook her head excitedly at him, and Bert grabbed the lid. “Just watch yourself in case it’s angry about being in the box.”

“She,” Jane correct him, peering over excitedly nonetheless. “I specifically asked for a she because one can never have enough female power – that’s what Miss Phryne says.”

Mac looked from one of them to the other, taking a small step back from where she’d approached in caution.

“Jane, is that a – ”

Bert opened the lid, and Mac was interrupted mid-sentence by a scream.

“It’s gone!” Jane gasped, and Mac – ever skilled at managing a crisis – ran for the door to the dining room, sticking her head through to see Phryne and Jack’s twin expressions of confusion.

“It’s fine,” Mac told them with a wide, false smile. “Everything’s fine, don't mind us.”

With that she shut the door again, turning back to the room at large. “Alright,” she began, tone commanding and no nonsense. “What happened?”

“Bloody thing must have escaped whilst we were bringing around all its toys and things,” Bert grumbled, turning on Cec. “I told you we should bring _it_ first, not just leave the box there unattended!”

“Well I’m not the one who wasted time haggling over a tip for the driver, am I? Couldn’t have just paid the man and had done with it, could you?” Cec shot back.

Mac rolled her eyes at their bickering and turned to Mr. Butler. “I think, perhaps, we might need a little time buying, Mr. Butler.”

An understanding smile passed over the man's face and he nodded. “I'll serve the champagne, Doctor.”

“Good idea,” she replied, and he set about gathering the glasses. Mac turned to Jane. “Now then – what is it, exactly, that we're looking for, Jane? What did you get her?”

A sheepish expression passed over Jane’s face. “It's a cat,” she explained. “But not any old cat – she's a Siamese! They used to be used to guard the King of Siam’s throne. They'd sit on pedestals and jump down on any threatening visitors to knock them over and claw their faces.”

Mac stared at the girl for a moment, then let out a soft, rather impressed chuckle. “I've got to hand it to you, Jane, that does sound like Phryne Fisher’s kind of pet.”

“Exactly!” Jane replied, tone turning somewhat disheartened. “But now it's lost! What are we going to do?”

“Well if these two are quite done bickering,” Mac turned on the cabbies as Mr. Butler slipped from the room with his tray of champagne ready to go. “Then they can get outside and look for the damn thing before it's too late – and Jane and I will go back to the party before anyone starts wondering where the rest of us disappeared to and starts looking.”

“I still think it's your fault,” Bert grumbled under his breath in Cec’s direction, and Mac opened her mouth to tell them to just _stop already_ when the kitchen door flew open, a still stormy-faced Phryne marching in.

“And that's our cue,” Mac whispered to Jane, shooting a look over to Bert and Cec, who nevertheless continued to gripe at each other for a few moments more until Jack walked in, face like thunder – whereupon the two seemed to mutually decide to reconcile their differences as a matter of urgency, making a beeline for the garden. Mac hesitated for a moment, looking between the two detectives as they decidedly did not look at each other, and considered for a second how much she valued her life. A lot, she appeared to decide as she took in their expressions, and she put a hand to Jane’s shoulder, hurrying her from the room without another word.

At the slamming of the kitchen door, Jack opened his mouth to speak again.

“I just don’t understand what you want from me, Phryne,” he told her again, rubbing a hand frustratedly across his face, and she turned to him with wide eyes.

“What isn’t there to understand, Jack? Are my advances too subtle for you? Would you like me to paint a sign? ‘Jack Robinson, haul your ashes here at earliest convenience’.”

“But is that all you want, Miss Fisher, or would you care to explain the incident with Miss Watson last week?” he demanded, leaning back against the cupboards and folding his arms across his chest expectantly.

Phryne ground her jaw, sticking out her chin (in that way of hers that everyone who knew her knew meant she was defending something indefensible) and staring him down. “That was an accident. My hand slipped – it was just terribly unfortunate I seemed to be holding tea at the time.”

Jack scoffed. “Of course – and I suppose her calling card just fell out of my suit pocket, did it?”

Phryne’s nostrils flared a little, eyes turning steely. “You must have lost it when you removed your warrant card – or perhaps your wallet.”

“I keep those in the other pocket.”

“Then it’s a mystery.” She shrugged, and Jack just sighed.

“I give up,” he muttered, turning back towards the dining room.

“There’s a surprise,” Phryne grumbled in response and Jack spun on his heel.

“And what’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Well.” Phryne raised an eyebrow at him. “You thought I’d killed myself, you ran scared. You decided I was too fickle for you, you almost married another woman – ”

“That,” Jack interrupted, rounding the table with a finger pointed, “is not what happened.”

“Then what did happen?” Phryne demanded with a pout, stepping closer in challenge.

“I was merely… weighing my options.” The words came out unsure and not a little defensive – almost as if the man knew he wasn’t going to win on this point.

“Gosh, how romantic, Jack – do catch me when I swoon.”

He groaned in frustration. “Phryne,” he tried, but she was quite evidently not ready to let her anger be abated.

“No, no, do tell me how you decided between the two of us. Was there a list? Or perhaps a chart!” she exclaimed, voice dripping sarcasm. “How many points did I edge her out by Jack, hmm? What tipped the balance in the end was it my hats, or the fact that I own a gun? Oh! Or maybe it was – ”

“The fact that I love you?” Jack demanded, the vestiges of regained calm slipping completely. “The fact that I sat and looked at a woman who loved me, offering me the kind of life I always thought I wanted, and felt sick at the idea of it not being you? Of not spending my days amused by your ridiculous antics and my nights by your side with your conversation and your wit and the way your eyes sparkle at intrigue making me feel like a damn _teen_ , giddy just from you looking at me.”

He gave a humourless chuckle. “How about the fact that I’d rather die a lonely man than pass over your friendship, because it means more to me than anything, and I would rather live in heartache than lose it? That I would rather never have you than have you for a moment and lose you completely thereafter.”

Somewhere amidst this declaration, Phryne had found her mouth falling open quite of its own accord. As he finished though, the corners turned up into a slightly awestruck smile.

“Jack…” she breathed, “you… foolish, foolish man.”

His expression turned stunned at this, mouth opening in question or answer – though whichever it was became lost as his mouth was suddenly otherwise occupied, Phryne capturing it with hers, kissing him soundly.

“You do have me, Jack,” she whispered against his stunned lips, tilting her head to the side with a smirk, then, before adding, “In so much as any man ever could or will.”

Jack shook his head at her, expression still mildly flabbergasted. “Phryne, I can’t ask you to – ”

“You’re not asking anything, Jack,” she interrupted. “Did it never occur to you that I might actually – ”

The sentence was cut short by the abrupt and violent opening of the kitchen door, and Phryne and Jack fell quickly away from each other’s grasp as they turned to stare at the intruder on their reconciliation.

There was a moment of absolute silence as the two detectives seemed to process what was in front of them, and then Jack spoke.

“Collins!” he exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing?”

The Constable looked from one of them to the other, then down to the cat cradled against his bare chest, and started to giggle uncontrollably.

Jack turned to Phryne with horror in his eyes, and she looked back at him with a confounded shrug.

“Hugh?” she asked, cautious, but found herself immediately interrupted by the opening of the door to the dining room - a very flustered looking Dot running in.

“Hugh!” she called. “Please! You have to put the cat down and come and get dressed!”

At this, Hugh’s face dropped into a scowl, and he took a step back – cradling the cat ever closer, quite oblivious seeming to its hisses of protest. “No!” he declared.

Dot – for as much as she may have been known for a gentle, loving nature – seemed at this very moment to lose her grip on it. “Hugh Collins!” she snapped. “You come here and give me that cat right now, or so help me - ”

She made a dash for his side of the table, but Hugh was quicker, scampering out of the way and past where Jack had pulled Phryne out of his path just in time, and around to the other side of the table. Hugh looked from Dot to the door and back again, then grinned.

“Hugh, no!” Dot called out to him – but he had already made his bid for freedom – and she followed quickly behind.

The kitchen stood silent for a second, then Phryne and Jack looked to each other.

“Later?” he asked simply, and she nodded, emphatic.

“Later,” she agreed, and the two ran after them.

It had seen a great deal, the kitchen, enough to brag to its fellows certainly – but even with all it knew, it still hadn’t a clue what might happen in the end. For that knowledge, it would simply have to ask the hall.


	4. What Happened in the End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In return for this being posted 6 months later than orginally intended this is where the entire story dissolves into complete and irredeemable crack so that I could get it over and done with and write fluffy 'phrack+a siamese' follow ups. Is that fair?

“Aunt Prudence!” Phryne exclaimed, the shock on her face suggesting that she had, perhaps, quite forgotten they were even still expecting her aunt at all. 

“Phryne!” Prudence raised an eyebrow, looking around at the scene before her with an expression of complete incredulity. “What in heaven’s name is happening? Why is this man half naked in your front hall – and why is he holding a cat?”

“I think we’d all quite like to know that, Aunt P,” Phryne replied, turning back to her other party guests. “Anyone?”

Opposite her, Mac turned to Jane with a raised eyebrow but the girl – expression almost as confused as her great aunt’s – just shook her head in response. 

Mr. Butler – who it appeared had quite missed the exchange – stepped forward, clearing his throat. “I believe,” he began, then repeated himself louder as Hugh started to sing to the cat in his arms. “I believe that the cat is your birthday present, Miss Fisher.”

Phryne’s jaw fell open. “My what?”

“Your birthday present,” Jane replied, stepping forward with a cautious glance to Hugh. “But it’s all gone wrong.”

Phryne’s expression softened immediately at Jane’s apparent upset. “What do you mean, Jane?” she asked. “Well, I suppose this isn’t exactly how you intended it to be delivered.” She eyed Hugh as he swayed the feline back and forth, one eyebrow raised and a smirk still playing at her lips. “But there is, in fact, a cat.”

“Not the right cat, though!” Jane wailed. “It was meant to be a Siamese this is just… I don’t know what this is but I’ve seen drawings of Siamese cats and this definitely isn’t one.”

Mac stepped forward then, putting a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Maybe it all just got a bit confused, Jane, but at least we found it.”

“Found it?” Phryne straightened up again, looking at her best friend. “Was it lost?”

Mac and Mr. Butler exchanged a quick glance. “Temporarily.”

“All this is very well and good,” Prudence interrupted, “but none of it explains why Constable Collins is in nothing but his undergarments – nor why he’s cradling the thing like a babe.”

“Actually,” Jack chimed in, face set in consternation, “I’m a little lost on that, too.”

Dot let out a frustrated huff of air. “You aren’t the only ones. Can someone _please_ explain why a bit of fudge has turned my husband into a madman?”

“Fudge?” Aunt Prudence asked, gaze snapping to Phryne in attention. “Not Guy’s special fudge?”

“The very same,” Phryne told her with a smirk, and Dot and Jack both spoke at once, frustration in their tones.

“ _What’s in the fudge?_ ”

“Hash, darling,” Guy answered, appearing in the doorway with Isabella draped up against him. “Premium quality, best money can buy.”

Jack and Dot both went wide-eyed, Jack turning to Phryne, Dot to Hugh. 

“The fudge is laced with hash?” Jack hissed, and Phryne shrugged at him, painting on an innocent expression. 

“Well, it is my birthday.”

“Hugh?” Dot called, approaching her husband with caution. “Hugh, please will you put down the cat?”

“No!” Jane called. “Don’t put her down, she might run off again!”

Phryne tilted her head, examining the feline still cradled in Hugh’s arms. “That cat’s a boy, Jane.”

“What?” Jane asked. “No, I specifically said it had to be a _female_ cat.”

“Got her!” came a shout from outside, and everyone turned to see Bert and Cec in the doorway, a small Siamese sitting quietly in Cec’s arms. 

Silence descended on everyone, until Cec looked up from where he’d been stroking the animal, to see Hugh, mirroring him – if slightly more manically – by the stairs.

“Wait a second – what’s that?”

“More to the point, what’s _that_?” Mac asked. Looking at the cat in Cec’s arms.

“That’s a Siamese!” Jane called, running over to Cec to pet it, grin on her face before turning back to Phryne. “ _This_ is your birthday present.”

Phryne smiled. “She’s beautiful, Jane, but – if that cat’s mine, then whose cat is that?”

Eleven sets of eyes turned on Hugh, who seemed to have sung himself to sleep more so than the cat, and was swaying softly, eyes closed, as the thing growled a low discontented grumble in his arms.

“That,” Jack remarked, “is an excellent question. Although I’d still like to know how my Senior Constable ended up drugged in the first place.” He turned a stern glare towards Guy and Isabella.

“I’d like to know how to cure him!” Dot interjected. 

“Oh, a good night's sleep will sort him out.” Guy waved a hand vaguely in Hugh’s direction, rolling his eyes. 

At that moment the cat – apparently quite at the end of its tether with being cosseted like a child – made a violent bid for freedom, scrambling from Hugh’s arms and launching itself at the door. 

The Siamese (one could only assume seeing its fellow feline’s trajectory as an attack on the nice man holding her) leapt free herself, tackling Hugh’s cat with a fierce screech. 

“No!” Jane cried, eyes wide and fearful, “Someone stop them!”

Each party goer looked to the others, too dazed, confused, or otherwise apprehensive of claws to move to action, and Jane looked from one of them to the other with frustration as the cats continued to roll around in a tumble of hissing fur. 

“Please!” Jane insisted zeroing her pleading expression in on the only person perhaps both brave and soft-hearted enough to be moved by it. 

Jack walked towards the feline free-for-all with a sigh, reaching towards the mess of claws and teeth whilst everyone else looked on with varying expressions of horror and amusement. There was a hiss, a howl, and a heavy stream of curse words that had even the semi-conscious Hugh’s eyes widening – and then all hell broke loose. 

…

 

“And so they used to sit on pedestals next to the King so they could leap down and claw people’s faces off.”

“Why on earth would you buy something like that,” Aunt Prudence exclaimed as Jane finished, “Ghastly creature.”

Jane’s expression turned defensive and she opened her mouth to speak, but Phryne cut her off, patting one arm gently in both reassurance and warning. 

“I think it’s a wonderful present, Jane – she’ll make a fantastic addition to the household, won’t she, Mr. Butler?”

“Hmm?” Mr. Butler looked up from where he was sweeping glass up from the doorway. “Oh yes, yes, absolutely – the perfect Fisher mascot.”

Phryne grinned, and gave Jane’s arm another quick squeeze before turning her attention back to her butler. “Are you sure you don’t want some help with that, Mr. B?”

He smiled, waving her off. “Of course not, miss, it’s your birthday. I’ll have this cleaned up in no time, and then I think it’ll be time for another round of champagne.”

“Someone say champagne?” Bert asked as he and Cec walked into the parlour and slumped unceremoniously onto the sofa looking somewhat rumpled but otherwise none the worse for wear. 

Phryne huffed out a laugh. “Don’t worry about cleaning up, Mr. B, I think your alcoholic assistance may be more urgent.”

“Did you find his owners?” Jane asked, seeming to perk up somewhat at their return. 

“Yeah, grumpy sod,” Cec replied, completely oblivious to Aunt Prudence’s look of exasperation at their behaviour. “Told us we owed ‘im five bob for the damage to his property, and another five for the emotional distress to his daughter who the cat belonged to.”

“What?” Aunt Prudence seemed to get over her disgust at the situation just long enough to be indignant instead, and Phryne let out a soft chuckle. “But you returned the thing safe and sound, didn’t you? Honestly, people will do anything these days for an easy penny.”

“If Constable Collins damaged his property trying to get the cat then I think it’s only fair we pay them some damages, Aunt P,” Phryne chimed in. “I’ll reimburse you, boys, of course.”

“You can throw in an extra five bob for our damages and all,” Bert shot back, and Phryne laughed. 

“You got off lightly,” came a voice from the doorway, and they all turned to see Mac leaning against the doorframe, smirking.

Phryne appeared – to anyone who might have been paying attention – to perk up slightly at her friend’s return, an obvious question on her lips.

“How’s the patients?” Cec asked first, though.

“Well all our resident fudge-lovers are now happily asleep,” Mac replied, shrugging off the door and coming to sit down. “Dot’s watching over Hugh like he might spring up and go cat-napping again, but he’s sleeping like the dead, won’t be going anywhere until about midday tomorrow I’d say.”

“How’s the cat?” Jane asked, and Phryne did a very good job at hiding any irritation she perhaps felt that Jane had asked about the cat first. 

“She’ll be absolutely fine, Jane,” Mac told the girl with a smile. “I cleaned up all her scratches and she’s fast asleep in her basket in the kitchen.”

Jane smiled in relief and Mac turned to Phryne, who was watching her expectantly. The doctor gave her a knowing smile and a small nod, and Phryne gave a long sigh, stretching as she stood – looking nonchalant to absolutely nobody, though none of them would ever have had the heart nor courage to tell her so. 

“Well, I suppose I’ll go and see where Mr. B’s got to with the champagne.”

She drifted from the parlour to the dining room, almost barreling into Mr. Butler with his tray. “Ah, Mr. Butler, there you are.”

“Apologies, miss, champagne?”

Phryne looked from the tray of bubbling golden liquid to the kitchen door and back again. 

“I’m sure the Inspector could do with a drink – do you know I quite forgot to leave him a glass, I do apologise.”

Phryne’s mouth pulled up ever so slightly in one corner in a way that could, perhaps, have been involuntarily, but quite equally could have been a sign she had never loved her butler more than in this moment. 

“Don’t apologise, Mr. B, I’ll just take him a glass.”

With that she scooped two flutes from the tray, and the two parted – Mr. B disappearing into the parlour and Phryne gently pushing open the kitchen door and shutting it again firmly behind her. 

And if her breath caught a little when she took in the sight that greeted her – of Jack sitting against the china cabinet, bandaged hand stroking a sleeping siamese and a soft expression muting the angry red scratches down his face – well, only the kitchen would ever know. 

 


End file.
